


Out of Reach

by Instigator



Series: Family Dynamics [2]
Category: Captain America, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, Natasha has strange ideas about love, and morals, and nail polish, and slumber parties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2014-01-28
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:41:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Instigator/pseuds/Instigator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vignettes about Natasha and love, friendship, and her place within the team.</p><p>1) Natasha takes a rare chance and accompanies Steve to Peggy Carters funeral.<br/>2) Natasha's dreams have rules. One of them is "no remorse". Then she wakes up. Tony and Bruce come knocking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maskedfangirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maskedfangirl/gifts).



> I wrote this little thing to help me sort out some Natasha and Steve stuff for my Family Dynamics 'verse, but you don't need to have ready any of that to read this.
> 
> Thanks to printed_soot for beta-ing and to maskedfangirl for telling me to write this.

For the most part, Natasha was fine with not having a lot of friends. Particularly, she was fine with having a lot of friendly acquaintances who didn’t know her all that well but enjoyed her company. There had been Phil Coulson, who she’d gotten along with and who knew her fairly well. And there was the Director, who had a protective streak regarding her, albeit one that never interfered with him sending her where she needed to go. And Pepper Potts seemed determined to understand Natasha, which was unlikely, but Natasha appreciated the effort, since it didn’t seem to have any unsavory reasoning behind it. Then there was Clint, who knew more than Pepper but less than Phil had or the Director did, but who had attached himself to her in a strangely non-suffocating way and who she worried about when she had cause to.  She knew that by most people’s standards, that was a short list.

But it was a longer list than the man whose very middle-class apartment she was standing outside had. His list was exactly zero.

She knocked, and could almost feel his confusion in the pause before there was a response. She knew he was home, but she also knew hardly anyone would be knocking on his door. This wasn’t a building where talking to your neighbors was valued, and he had no-one else that would visit. After a brief hesitation, Steve Rogers opened the door.

It wouldn’t be fair to say he looked like a wreck. He was dressed normally, his hair was nearly combed, and his expression was 90% polite curiosity. She suspected even most people without her training could see some of the hollowness underneath; if they could, those people wouldn’t dare to comment on it. They’d dismiss it, because who were they to question the emotional welfare of Captain America?

“Hello.” She greeted pleasantly, making sure to keep it down from chipper. Steve would be in no mood for chipper, but he might try it, if she sounded too perky.

“Ms. Romanov.” He answered back, just a hair more guarded than she’d expected. He gestured her in, and she entered. His apartment, like most homes, spoke volumes about it's occupant. She was pleased that most of what it was saying confirmed her earlier assessments of him. The building itself was old- older than him, in fact, and from the outside it looked like he might be trying to recapture his old life. The inside told a different story. It was sparsely decorated; the home of someone starting over. What objects he did have weren’t replicas of his 40s or 30s experiences. They were selected for function, simplicity, and comfort. No antiques. Just good quality, sturdy pieces that fit his slightly oversized scale.  Things that would last for someone hoping to stay put.

He watched  her cautiously. Almost hopefully. "Are you here with a mission?" Ah. So he was second guessing, half hoping she’d bring him an excuse not to go.

"No. Just a check in."

His expression flickered with embarrassment and a hint of offense. "Check in? Didn't know SHEILD did that."

"SHEILD notices when you buy a ticket out of the country."

Now he was annoyed. "What, they worried I'm going to go AWOL, I cleared my leave-"

She shook her head, and he went silent. "I'm not here on behalf of SHEILD. Mind if I sit?"

He startled, guiltily, embarrassed by his perceived lack of manners, and switching gears from work to social without thinking. "Yeah. Sorry, of course." he gestured to the couch, and she sat, leaning back comfortably, projecting ease. "Can I get you something?"

Hmm. Would refusing be rude? Maybe to Rogers it would. "I wouldn't mind a glass of water."

He nodded and went  to the kitchen, shooting her uncertain looks from time to time. She looked over his electronics- an iPod, a laptop. He was adjusting in that respect, at least.  He came back shortly with a glass of ice water, handing it to her. She took it with a smile and thanks. He hesitated- there wasn't anywhere to sit in the room other than the large couch or the small table across the room. He hadn't planned on much company. He sat down on the couch, keeping polite distance between them. From her seated position she could see the suitcase on his bed, half packed. He waited for her to explain herself.

She turned back to look at him, and caught his expression shift from morose to attentive, just a hair too late to cover up. "In the interest of fairness, I should tell you I'm only aware of this because of my connection to SHEILD. I'm just not here on their behalf."

His eyebrows drew together slightly in confusion, but he nodded. She continued. "I'm here to offer to accompany you on your trip."

The crease between his eyes deepened, he glanced away. "I don't need a babysitter, Ms. Romanov."

"That's good, since I'm not very good with children."

"Then can I ask why? We don't know each other well, why cross the Atlantic with a man you barely know? It's not...it's not to be a pleasant trip."

"I know why your going." she answered softly. "I'm not expecting a vacation out of it."

Steve could do stoic as well as almost anyone she knew, but he didn't retreat that far. Instead of erecting a wall, he just looked away. Not a bad response. "Then why?"

She looked down to, in case her watching him made him uncomfortable. "What I do know of you, I like. And I think I can help you."

"I don't need a-"

"Babysitter. I know. I'm not talking about protecting you, or sheparding you around. But funerals are just one of those social functions where it's just good to know someone. They're a lousy place to be a wallflower. Especially for someone who stands out as much as you do."

This time he looked down instead of away, lacing and unlacing his fingers. "You think people will recognize me?"

"I think people will recognize the face of Captain America. Especially there. People know Peggy knew you."

He made a face. He just wanted to go to the funeral of a woman he'd loved. "I don't want to make a fuss, I just..."

"Then let me run interference for you. I can manage a crowd, and I can keep anyone from talking to you who you don't want to talk to. I'll keep the focus off you as much as possible."

"Hell of a way for you to spend your leave."

She smirked. This was why people liked Steve. "It's fine. Fury rarely denies my leave requests unless something major is happening. In which case it doesn't matter what I'm doing."

He nodded, almost imperceptibly, thinking quietly for a moment. "You really don't have to do this."

"I know." she answered simply. If she gave him any further answer, he might try to argue it. He had a habit of trying to keep people from looking after him.

Unable to argue, he looked at her. If she could learn to fake sincerity on the level he could produce it authentically she'd never have to break cover again. Still, she tried to show him authentic sincerity as he watched her. finally, he nodded. "Ok. Thank you."

Steve flew commercial. Of course he did. But he had at least upgraded to first class- a smart move with his legs. She hated commercial flying- she hated being in any aircraft whose pilot she didn't know. She'd looked it up, and this pilot had a good safety record, so she'd put up with it. She'd obtained the seat next to him, and didn't think she was imagining the flicker of relief when she'd settled in next to him. He tried conversation a few times, apparently more out of feeling that he should be entertaining her than out of any actual desire to communicate. When she responded but never tried to drag the conversation along, he eventually let it go, and spent most of the rest of the flight silently looking out the window, more at ease than she could be in a public place like this. He had the window seat, and she had the seat between him and the rest of the passengers. If Steve wanted quiet, he'd have it.

The hotel was modest, and she'd gotten the room directly next to his. He suggested they meet for dinner, and she left him to his own devices in the mean time, staying in her own room and reading a book, scanning for sounds that would signal a problem. She wasn't a babysitter, but she could keep a little lookout.

When 7 rolled around, she knocked on his door, and he answered. Just like before, it wouldn't be fair to call him a wreck- his eyes weren't even red, but there was pain in his posture and his polite expression seemed strained. She suggested room service, and he agreed, gratefully. He looked apologetic ordering the amount of food he'd called up, still used to food being a scarcity.

She sat on his bed, pointedly looking comfortable and nonchalant, and after a few minutes he adjusted. This was another thing she liked about him- he found her attractive, she knew he did. But he clearly considered that fact completely irrelevant. Not just to the degree that he wouldn't say anything to her about it, but at a basic level of non-importance. His attraction just didn't matter. He sat on the farthest corner of the bed, not getting between her and the exit. Such a gentleman.

He didn't look up from his sandwich when he spoke. "I guess I'm still surprised you offered to come. We don't know each other that well."

She weighed a few potential responses. Rogers seemed to value frankness. "Nobody knows you that well. I didn't see anyone more qualified around."

He flinched, but didn't argue. "Doesn't mean you have to."

She smirked, and poked his knee with a toe. He looked up. "I'm not here because I have to be. Sometimes I do things because I want to."

He attempted a smile. "Sorry. I don't mean to sound ungrateful."

"You don't."

"Can I ask...why did you want to?"

She studied her fish and chips. If he thought she was pitying him, he'd shut this all right down. "You've seen me in action. I'm very good at what I do." he nodded. "But it's not that often I get to be of use to someone just as myself, not as an agent of SHEILD. “She looked up at him through her eyelashes, using eye contact to note her sincerity. “I like it, when I have the opportunity. And I like you, and felt I was in a unique position to help." Steve should get this. He was a giving, kind man, who spent all his time working or alone, with minimal ways to contribute to other people on a personal level.

He nodded. "I'm surprised. I'd think you could have any kind of relationships you wanted."

She smiled darkly. "People who I can trust enough to let them know what I am are usually afraid of me."

He frowned. "That's a shame. Don't think you deserve that."

"And that sums up a good part of why I like you."

He looked up from his second sandwich, smiling lopsidedly. "Just cause I can see you as more than The Black Widow?"

"And because I can see you as more than Captain America."  He looked down again. She wondered if anyone else had said anything since he'd woken up. Even in SHEILD, there were few people who'd had their identities stripped down to an _idea_ of a person. He was one. Arguably the Director. And there was her. The rest of them had further lives- either inside SHEILD or outside it. They had histories. Her history was mostly gone, almost entirely suspect, and his was out of reach.

He nodded. "It's strange. I was Captain America before- an icon, I guess. But the people around me..."

"Were your friends. Yours, not Captain America’s.”

He ducked his head, but made no effort to deny it or change the subject. His voice was nearly a whisper. "Yeah."

"And Peggy Carter?"

"Heh. She never saw me as Captain America. I'm sure I was always that dopey kid from Brooklyn to her. Think she thought the whole thing was a little funny, to be honest. But Bucky convinced me she liked the outfit, so..."

She smiled. The great and legendary Captain America; born as much out of trying to impress a girl as anything else. "Not bowled over by your celebrity?"

“Nobody who actually knew me was that impressed with me.” He said with a fond smile. Which explained why he was so uncomfortable with everyone being so impressed with him now.

"I know you already know I'm not American."

He nodded. "I wouldn't have guessed, but I read the file." Sure he did. That must have been the most sanitized, edited file in SHEILD.

"Well, Steve, I can assure you I'm not too impressed with you. Impressed, sure. But not _too_ impressed. I didn't grow up with legends of Captain America. When I heard about you, it was as a science experiment. I've read your file, but beyond that" she shrugged. "In my mind, you're Steve Rogers. Very effective, very brave, and more alone than is good for anyone. The rest of them will come around or they won’t. But for now, there's me."

He watched her. A slight increase in respiration said she'd hit a nerve- or several nerves. His expression wasn't as open as it had been, but the avid way he searched her face said enough. She continued "So, since there's me, I'll take it upon myself to make sure you get what you came here for."

He looked away, rubbing his face. "I don't know what that I'm here for. Pay my respects, I guess. Say goodbye-"

"You're here to mourn." He froze for a second, then his shoulders drooped. Possibly relived. "And if today was any indication, you'll barely say three words at the funeral tomorrow. So, do it now. Tell me about your Peggy Carter."

His next words were hurried. "She wasn't mine. I wanted her to be. But..." he looked out the dark window, which could only give him back his reflection, and looked back down at his hands. "Think she would have been. If I hadn't...hadn't ended up here. But, you know, Schmidt had still been..." he sighed. "And I can't regret it."

"Was she the type to have wanted you to?"

His eyes softened. "No. She understood that. I know she did." Steve was the type to get sentimental and gooey eyed over the woman he loved accepting his death for a higher cause. They must have been a hell of a pair.

"Then tell me about her."

Steve did. For the better part of two hours. Natasha had baited Loki by telling him love was for children. Steve seemed almost like a child, talking about Peggy. All wide eyed wonder and bashful regret. He kept his grief heavy behind his teeth though- the restraint of an adult. He wasn't ready to let that out yet.

Natasha wasn't one much for love. She wasn't built for it and couldn't quite fit the mold. But now and then, when it came from someone whose pain was enough for her not to resent or envy them, she liked to hear love. The way Steve talked about Peggy, anyone would fall in love with her, and Natasha borrowed the echoes of  his feelings as her own for a few hours.

She didn't really want to be loved. She could pull that out of people as needed; it didn't mean much. But loving someone else, thinking that highly of them, without utility in mind—that was something else. Something appealing, if unlikely. At least now she had people she could like, could do things for, without need of utility. And there was Clint, whatever that was.  She sat against Steve's headboard, watching him love Peggy and knowing she was helping without needing to.

As expected, Steve was as silent as possible throughout the funeral. He wore a suit instead of his military uniform, trying to blend in as if he wasn't the tallest person in the room. A few people recognized him, and what that happened, she'd mingle, change subjects, just knowledgeable enough about the dead woman to fit in and steer conversations. She didn't let anyone near Steve that Steve wouldn't want to talk to. She subtly moved him around enough to overhear conversations from others about the life Peggy'd had after him. It would hurt him to hear, but if he loved her he'd want to know, and this was a unique opportunity. He listened, stoic but letting through an appropriate amount of grief for an extremely English funeral.

There were several older SHEILD agents present, most of them clearly recognized Steve, but most of them seemed to feel he was off-limits. But one of them, a woman 10 years Peggy's junior who had regarded Peggy as a mentor in her youth and a friend later on cheerfully cornered Steve and rambled for 20 minutes about Peggy to him. Steve was uncomfortable at first, and Natasha considered steering the old woman off, but once it was clear she wanted Steve's ear, not his words, he settled in.

During the service a few tears got away from him. Anyone who noticed kept quiet and averted their eyes.

They left as soon as things seemed to be winding down, before only the closest family would be left, and the party would get too intimate. Natasha felt Steve deserved to be there, but he didn't want to be, didn't want to face the rest of them, she suspected, so they left.

He went to his room, to change, he said. She went out to get a bottle of wine. When she came back, and knocked on his door, she offered him the bottle and some glasses she'd gotten from the hotel staff. Now his eyes were red, his hair out of place. The hollow look in the back of his eyes was at the front now, and was being kept company by an overall expression of grief she'd been starting to worry he had shut down too far to feel.

He looked at the bottle covetously, but shook his head. "Can't."

She slipped inside his room. "Sure you can."

"No I mean- it doesn't do anything. I can't get drunk." His voice was rough at the edges.

That had been in the file, or she wouldn't have brought it. She felt for Rogers, she did. But a drunk mourning supersoldier didn't seem like a good idea to her. "I know. And I won't. But it's part of the ritual. Drinking to the fallen. It's practically a human universal. So-" she held up the bottle again. He couldn't get drunk, but the way he talked about alcohol she could guess he was familiar enough with drinking for at least a little placebo effect.

He turned away from her, abruptly.  "She wasn't mine. I've got no right-"

She frowned at him. "No _right?_ "

"You saw all those people. I didn't know any of them. She had a whole life after me and here I am acting like...like we were...I only knew her for a couple years. "

She sat on the bed, letting her back go straight, showing her conviction. "That's not how this works."

His anger at himself was palpable. "I don't even know what I'm doing here. She wasn't mine. Maybe she would have been but she wasn't. I never made a move, no matter how many chances she gave me. Never took even one opportunity she offered. She gave me so many chances and I wasted every one of them. The people that deserve to mourn her are the ones who... who could- She wasn't mine. I wasn't good to her. Those people in that room, they get to mourn her. Most of them knew her more than I ever did."

She gave him a small challenge. "Do you miss her?"

He swung his head away. "Not enough."

She raised an eyebrow. This was as close to despair as she'd ever seen him, even with all he'd lost. "This isn't enough?"

He turned away from her, sitting abruptly down on the edge of the bed. "I never called her." He hung his head. "I knew she was alive, I knew where she was, and I never called her. She must have seen me, on TV. She knew I was out there, and I never called. Never wrote. Never came to see her. And I show up _now?_ Now she's gone?" his voice was heavy with as much disgust as grief. "What's the point in that?"

She took a slow breath. "Ok, one: that's not how this works. Nobody gets to decide whether you get to mourn or not. You're already mourning, and denying it won't change it, so you might as well do it right, and honor her memory. Whatever that means to you. If you want to talk about _rights_ , then who has the right to tell you not to feel what you feel? That's yours. It belongs to you. You do with that whatever you want."

Steve looked back at her, unconvinced but listening. Steve devoted his life to protecting rights, they might as well include his own. Natasha loved rights too—of all the lies she lived in, they were her favorite fiction. And they were a comforting fiction Steve could afford. Steve needed to believe in them, in what he'd given the life he'd had to protect.

"Two: having regrets doesn't negate your rights to your pain. I'm sure it doesn't make it any smaller, much less gone. I'd think it would make it worse. And three: trying to pretend you aren't mourning makes a lie out of your feelings for her. And I don't think that's how you want to 'pay your respects'. So." She pushed the bottle towards him again. "You're going to do this anyways, let's do it right."

He looked from her to the bottle and back again, and carefully took it. She nodded her approval, and relaxed her tone. "If you think you have something to apologize to her for, we'll go to her grave tomorrow and you can tell her." Because Steve Rogers was a Christian, and if there was ever a use for a big, comforting fiction, this was it.

He winced, looking down. "In public-"

"If anyone gets too close I'll shoot them." she deadpanned.

He looked at her, huffed a small laugh. "But you're on vacation."

She smiled at him, more fondly. "I'll make up the time by slacking off on Monday."

He shook his head, still smiling, but not fighting the pain in his eyes. "Ok."

She leaned back against the headboard. "Drink your wine, Steve. I can tell today made you think of at least a dozen more stories. Let's hear them."

He did. He drank the bottle by himself to no effect, and talked for four hours this time, getting choked up and teary over a dozen times, but never stopping, wanting to tell Natasha, or maybe anyone, about Peggy more than he wanted to save face. Again, Natasha basked in secondhand devotion.

The next day they did go to her grave. This time, Natasha made herself scarce, letting his privacy trump her desire to watch him love. She did make sure nobody got close enough to hear him. His regrets should belong to him.

There, at her grave, covered with flowers and wreaths, she saw him break down. His sobs were meant for Peggy's ears alone, as much as his apologies were, and she kept out of hearing range.

When he stood, and started moving away from the grave, she let him get some distance before rejoining him. He was still wiping at his eyes with a handkerchief. "Thanks for telling me to do this."

She nodded. "No problem. I hope it helped."

He nodded. "It did."

Back at the hotel, the packed up, ready to leave for a pre-dawn flight. She sat on the bed again, watching him pack. "You can tell me about the others some time, if you want."

He smirked humorlessly. "That could get out of hand pretty quickly, I think. This was enough."

She leaned her jaw on a fist. "You're good at this. There must have been several of them." he gave her a funny look. "Sorry. You don't have to tell me. But I don't mind it."

"I'm sure you have ways you'd rather spend your time."

"I like it." she said. It was really a little more than she meant to say. He gave her the predictable funny look. "Not the grief part. But that you love them. You don't often hear people talk that way.” At least, you didn't if you were her. Maybe someone who'd loved enough to be proficient at it, like Steve, attracted more of that kind of conversation. Although, maybe he appreciated it less.

Steve nodded, slowly. He was isolated enough, maybe that wouldn't seem too strange. He gave her a funny look again. “What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You're just going to listen to me talk? That seems a little..."

What should she say? Now and then she ran into other's pity unintentionally and she _hated_ that. She was too strong for pity. Keep it simple then. "I don't love anybody."

He looked puzzled. "Oh. I thought...you and Agent Barton?"

That was a shock to the system. She maintained a neutral expression but damn. She'd put on the show for Loki but Steve knew that was a show, which meant he was basing this off her real behavior. "We aren't together."

He shrugged. "Neither were Peggy and I, or me and Bucky. Or me and...anybody, actually. "

So Steve didn't think she was dating Clint, he just thought she loved him.

“…Maybe,” she allowed. She stayed nearly neutral, just dipping her eyes down enough to show him that this was meant to be kept in confidence, not showing how strange the idea was. She didn't fit with love. Wasn't the right internal shape for it.

He shrugged again, looking at the shirt he was folding. "I guess talking about him would be different, since he isn't..."

"I could tell you about Phil." She offered. She hadn't...really....quite meant to. And she hadn't loved Phil Coulson. But she had liked him, more than most people in her life—at least of the people she could be sure had actually ever existed. And this was appealing, trading stories with Steve, watching him light up like a candle—wavering but continuing. She'd been listening to him, maybe she had this down enough to participate.

"That'd be nice. I'd like that. Thank you." He said, quietly. She nodded.


	2. Chapter 2

Natasha's dreams had rules.

 

She didn't know where the rules came from- if they were a coping skill or a training remnant, but they'd held, year after year.

 

Rule one was that she always and only dreamed of the present. Not necessarily as it actually was- but she dreamed only of her current name, her current life. Never dark and biting tundra, or blood-soaked bandages in pristine ballet shoes- or a handsome grey-eyed man with so much anger in him she was mostly sure he'd been real. She never dreamed of any of the histories she'd lived or been given. Often, that was a relief. Sometimes, it made her angry- flattening all the options into equal likelihood without prioritizing any one.

 

Rule two was that mirrors didn't work right. That was usually the main tipoff that she was dreaming. In her dreams, her mirror image wouldn't copy her. It would just stand there, dressed as she was dressed, watching her every motion impassively. Not even judgmentally, in the kind of guilt-ridden symbolism she should rightly be afflicted with. Just watched. She thought that at one point in her life that had frightened her. It didn't anymore.

 

Rule three was that there was no remorse. Even though, in her dreams, she did things even her waking self found repulsive, in the dreams there was no guilt, no shame. Again, she wondered if that was programming, or something innate to her. In her dreams, she could commit any atrocity, any horror, and be unaffected. And, since she only dreamt of the present, the horrors were always visited on the present- or whatever potential version of the present she was dealt by her subconscious. Her mind ran through endless possible betrayals and threats and how she could counter them, take them down and protect herself. If she had a dream of preparation and failed one night, it would repeat again the next night, until her sleeping mind found the key to success. She was fairly sure that was programming. And most mornings, she woke feeling a little more prepared to deal with the day ahead, after a night of preparation. Sometimes they were violent. Sometimes not, but there was always a problem or a danger to take down.

 

Todays exersize was Clint- once again under Loki’s control, but with the “cognitive recalibration” loophole closed this time. His body compelled forward- attacking again and again, hours after his injuries should have put him down, pushed onward by Loki’s magic.

 

_Clint looked up at her with a gurgled whimper, eyes clearing, the pain blocked by Loki's spell swamping him suddenly as Loki released his mind, just in time for him to look up at her, frightened and sorry and betrayed and worst of all, relived. Awake long enough to know it was Natasha that had been taking him apart, inch by inch, all night. She could only look down at him, dispassionately, knowing he wouldn't see remorse from her. Knowing that, now, in his last seconds of life, he would understand her._

Natasha threw herself out of bed, and lurched towards the bathroom in the hotel suite, and made it to the toilet just in time, retching violently. 

 

There were fewer rules for when she woke up. Remorse, guilt, horror and shame were all perfectly possible once she was awake. Aparently, her concience slept through the night without dreaming. That was one facet of herself she'd like to know the origin of. She didn't know where her morals, her internal compass had come from, or _when_ it had come from. All she knew was that it was here, now. 

 

This one hit hard, and she was dry-heaving before it was over. She didn’t bother expending the kind of energy it would have taken her to wrestle her body back under control and stop it. She had these luxuries, now. Guilt and fear and shame. She could afford to be ruled by them, just for a little while. 

 

She flushed the toilet, and sat back, leaning her head against the bathroom wall, enjoying the cold tile and plaster. She could afford to be horrified by dreams like these. Could be reasonably sure not to have to follow through on the plans her mind forced her to make. The opulence of the hotel Tony had chosen for their one night in London was pale in comparison. The burn of bile was more than made up for by the knowledge that she could make a claim to some kind of morality, now. Not virtue, but at least freedom of choice.

 

There was a quick, unapologetic knock on the door, and she raised an eyebrow at the bathroom door.

 

She levered herself to her feet, and made her way back to the main room, glancing at the clock by the bed. 5am. Almost dawn, this time of year; in this part of the world. They’d checked in at midnight, gone to bed at nearly 2. The knock didn’t come again, and no voice followed it. The door had a peephole.

 

Tony was on the other side, disheveled, one eye bruised with fatigue and one blackened by the day’s fight, tension in his shoulders but exhaustion in his spine. He was blinking at the door indifferently. She opened it.

 

He almost seemed to have forgotten why he was standing there, seemed confused by her appearance, then recovered. “Hey, heard you up and moving around from Bruce’s room.” Translation- he’d heard her throwing up while he and Bruce were both awake at 5am. Tony offered up a piece of gum, talking through the gesture as if refusing to acknowledge it. “We’re having ourselves a little slumber party. There’s waffles. And scotch. I could make there be vodka. We could do each others’ nails.”

 

She accepted the gum, although the taste didn’t bother her.

 

Other people’s affection for her didn’t effect Natasha much. Tony’s affection mattered a hair more than most because he seemed to wholesale accept that it was a result of deliberate and skilled manipulation on her part. Once he’d been comfortable with her intentions, he’d become strangely accepting of her methods. And he’d stopped calling it “mind control” when he’d gotten the hint that Clint didn’t like the term. “Sure.” Was all she said. She grabbed the hotel robe off the hook on the inside of the door, and followed him the few feet to the next door, left ajar.

 

Bruce was sitting on top of a pile of overstuffed, high-thread-count bedding in his boxers and a London tourist t-shirt. He looked, as he so often looked, slightly apologetic. Maybe because he hadn’t stopped Tony from knocking. Maybe he felt bad for her. Maybe he felt bad for overhearing her throwing up. He did, in fact, have a plate of blueberry waffles on his lap. His tone matched his expression. “Hi.”

 

“Hi.” She picked up a bottle off the floor. “Nice pairing with blueberry waffles.”

 

“I thought so.” Tony agreed. “Get you a glass?”

 

“I’ll just have a waffle.”

 

“Hm. I can order more up. Or there’s still one on my plate. Untouched and cootie-free, I swear, as long as you like syrup.” Stark kept and dropped his intimacies in the strangest places. She couldn’t hand him things, but now eating off each other’s plates was acceptable? She weighed options for a moment. Turning him down wasn’t likely to be taken as a major rejection after she’d agreed to join them in the first place. And she’d taken the gum- which she was still holding, unopened.

 

But she was hungry. And if Tony got too close, he was equally easy to propel away again if she wanted to. She picked up the plate, sticky at the edges and clearly discarded. “Syrup is the point of waffles.” She said, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

 

Tony rounded on Bruce, pointing at her. “See! She gets it!”

 

And they settled in. They made fun of the movie, they made fun of Bruce, and they made fun of Tony. Nobody made fun of her. Clint was still the only one on the team that dared that. But they let her tease them, feeling out boundaries and weak spots. Let her gather their personal data as she ate her heavily sugared breakfast.

 

There was so _much_ data in a situation like this. How unused Bruce was to having others around to distract and sooth him- unused to it enough she suspected it was a factor of Bruce, not the Other Guy.  That Tony was carefully counting out how much he’d been drinking, and put the bottle out of his line of sight once he reached that point. That Tony _desperately_ missed Pepper right now, and soothed himself by rambling about her- mildly embarrassing stories of the sort he clearly found endearing and that Natasha enjoyed listening to. But Bruce turned quiet and jealous and she steered him off on to other subjects.

 

Tony went from sitting on the bed, to reclining with his head propped on a hand, then propped lower on an elbow, and then, during a supposedly romantic scene in the movie, he was out cold and snoring through his swollen sinus passages. In Bruce's room, no less.

 

Clint did that, sometimes. Sought people out just to have someone in the room when he passed out or fell asleep. Just sometimes. Other times he would guard his privacy as jealously as even Bruce. But sometimes he’d invent some stupid reason to find her, only to fall asleep on her 30 minutes later. It was obnoxious, but the familiarity of it appealed to her.

 

Bruce almost tried to look disapprovingly at the sprawl of unconscious man on his bed. “It’s a king sized bed. He shouldn’t be able to take up the whole thing like that.”

 

“And yet.”

 

“And yet.” Bruce agreed. He tilted his head. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen an adult do that. The way he just drops off that way. Like a toddler. I mean I know he sometimes stays awake for days, but I’ve also seen him fall asleep sitting up mid-sentence.”

 

She was up for the day. “Do you want my room? I’m awake.”

 

Bruce shook his head. “Thanks, no. I’m fine.”

 

So she went back to the movie. They didn’t bother being quiet for Tony. He’d brought them here, so their continued presence should be fine. She looked back when the bed twitched. Bruce did the same. Tony twitched in his sleep again, dreaming.

 

Bruce frowned, uncomfortable. “Should we wake him up?”

 

She studied Tony. Hands still loose. Respiration not especially accelerated. Not curling up. Coloration normal. “No, I think he’s fine.”

 

Bruce studied Tony a little longer, then nodded. Maybe not convinced, but trusting her judgement. If Tony started to give off different signals, she’d wake him. Until then, a little REM sleep might do him good. Maybe having people there would help. People on his bed, even. Even if they weren’t touching him, they way she suspected Pepper did when he was having trouble sleeping.

 

And Tony had brought her gum. Had silently acknowledged her nightmare without prying, in act act that was, for Tony, startlingly tactful. Had brought her here for what he assumed was her best interests. “How did he catch you up, anyways?” she asked.

 

He seemed caught off guard by the question, but answered anyways. “He actually woke me up. Knocked on my door.” And there was the embarrassment again. Why? Because he’d let Tony drag him in here? No. That didn’t fit the profile. Because Bruce had been caught doing something. Because Bruce had needed waking up, and it had been audible. She filed that away. Knowing who you could check on by sound alone could be handy. But Bruce room was across the hall from Tony’s. So Tony had already been up, prowling around the halls, seeking company in his hotel bathrobe and freshly bought sleepwear. By his nervous collecting of people, also on a nightmare. They made quite a collection.

 

Natasha made a quick decision, and went up to the ensuite. Just like in her room, there was a “welcome basket” full of toiletries and cosmetics and snacks. They each got the same one. And it contained- yes. A bottle of deep, shimmering red nail lacquer, a gift from the spa downstairs. Just what she was looking for.

 

Bruce looked at her curiously when she came back. She held up the bottle. “Tony called it a slumber party.”

 

Bruce shrugged, apparently comfortable enough with American teen girl customs to understand the connection between that word and nail polish. Apparently not considering that Bruce had grown up worlds closer to that life than she had. She sat down on the bed again, this time back by Tony’s feet.

 

Tony liked contact when agitated, she’d gotten that much. And now, he needed to sleep. He also usually acted as if he was allergic to any request for soothing or affectionate behaviors- at least in front of the team, and she couldn’t fault him for that. But he’d taken a risk and invited her in to this, and she had enjoyed it, and now she felt like rewarding him. And since he hadn’t asked about the nightmare, she’d even reinforce his efforts in a language he’d understand.

 

In the form of mild pranking.

 

She picked up his limp, heavy foot. He didn’t stir as she put it in her lap. Bruce glanced back over, and grinned the slightly sadistic grin he had. “That’s a good color for him.”

 

“I thought so.” She agreed. She shook the bottle, unscrewed the top, and set the bottle down on the nightstand beside her. “He’s an autumn.”

 

“If I fall asleep, are you going to give me a manicure?”

 

“Of course not. This is the only bottle, and you’re clearly a spring, not an autumn. Anyways, this is a pedicure.”

 

“Good to know.” He paused, watching as she started on Tony’s big toe. She held his foot securely, thumb digging gently into a pressure point bellow the ball of his foot, and she felt his arch relax accordingly. Prank or no, his sleeping mind responded to the contact. Hopefully staving off another nightmare. “What about the old ‘hand in a glass of warm water’?” Bruce asked- lightly, but a little too sincerely. He was amused by her joke, but worried about escalation, or about ending up on the wrong side of it.

 

She paused, setting Tony’s foot in her lap. “No, this is…Tony specific. If I thought this would upset him, I wouldn’t be doing it. But I hardly think a little red lacquer is more than Tony Stark’s pride can handle.”

 

“Well, that’s true.” He agreed, he watched her hands, curiously, thinking. “He probably will think it’s funny.”

 

“When he actually notices. I’m curious to see how long it takes.”

 

“I’m surprised he’s not waking up.” Bruce cocked his head to one side. “He always struck me as a light sleeper. Especially…“

 

“Especially after a nightmare.” Natasha filled in.  Bruce didn’t say anything. Just watched as she added another stripe. Natasha tucked her hair back. “He’s used to sharing a bed. A little movement wouldn’t bother him. It might even help.”

 

“For the record, don’t touch me when I’m sleeping.”

 

She smiled without looking up. “I am one of the worlds top spy’s Bruce. Or, at least I was, before everyone on the planet knew my face. I can figure that much out.”

 

“Right. Sorry.”

 

“It’s fine. There’s no rule against saying what you want. But Tony…” she paused, considering. “He’s different. From either of us.”

 

“In so many ways.” Bruce agreed.

 

“One of which is that neither of us would have gone knocking on other peoples doors in his shoes. He invited us. Sought us out.”

 

“I’m sorry, by the way. If you didn’t want to be…disturbed.”

 

“Tony has enough people apologizing for him on a regular basis. Don’t you start. He’s a big boy. He can do it himself.” She moved on to the next toe. Good coverage on this brand. She’d remember that. “But it’s ok. I recover quickly.”

 

“Lucky.”

 

She glanced up at him, just long enough to acknowledge his disclosure, then trained her eyes back to Tony’s foot. “What about you? Did you mind Tony invading your room?”

 

“A little.” He paused. “Not too much. He seemed…shaken. And I…” He trailed off.

 

“Didn’t mind being woken up?” she supplied.

 

A pause. “Right.”

 

There was a long gap in the conversation. She finished the first coat, and rested a hand on his ankle, inspecting her work. Bruce eventually spoke. “You’re not going to ask, are you.”

 

“I wasn’t planning to, no. Did Tony?”

 

“No.” Good job, Tony. She pressed another pressure point, rubbing just a little. His sleep still looked peaceful. “But I don’t think Tony’s as… Tony doesn’t pay enough attention to people to do what you do.” He paused, as she carefully put Tony’s foot on the bed to dry, and picked up the other, putting it in her lap, maneuvering for the best angle. Tony snored gently on. “You catalogue us. I know you do.” He tried to keep it from being an accusation. “Our personal information.”

 

She stayed relaxed. Defensiveness would be taken for guilt. “I track information I happen across, information you offer, and what’s in your SHEILD file. But none of you have given me any reason to pry. So I don’t.”

 

“And if one of us did?”

 

“Then I would.” She answered. She didn’t need to make the remark grim, or challenging. It was just a fact. “But in the interest of full disclose, I could probably make a few educated guesses. About your nightmares, I mean. I have at least some idea of what scares you.”

 

Another long pause. “What about you?”

 

She allowed for another pause, stilling her hands. She wasn’t sure what to say, but was willing to let Bruce see that she was considering how to answer. “Probably similar.”

 

“To me?”

 

Not quite, she was sure. Bruce had no training. Not like hers, anyways. His destruction was raw instinct- natural desire for violence blown up large. But the Hulk, as far as she’d ever been able to tell, felt no remorse. If it was the Hulk Bruce dreamed of, breaking and destroying everything around him, then…“That would be my guess.”

 

“Huh.” He paused. “Maybe.” He was considering it heavily enough she was pretty sure she’d read him correctly. “The…throwing up. Is that usual for you?”

 

“Not unusual. Not common. This one was particularly…” horrifying? Guilt inducing? Disgusting? They were always vivid. The smell of punctured organs was as familiar to her as the smell of the nail polish. No reason her mind couldn’t pull it up with clarity.

 

Why was she even having this conversation with Bruce? Bruce, who normally kept his distance. Who didn’t pry.

 

But…who probably had the same dreams. More importantly, the same feelings when he woke up. “Close to home.” She finished.

 

“Clint?” he guessed. Her head snapped up- she was comfortable enough here to register surprise. He startled at her response. “What? He’s- I mean, as far as I can tell, he’s really the only one. So it would have to be him, wouldn’t it?”

 

She stared at him a second longer. His eyebrows ratcheted up a little, questioning, a little smug he’d caught her. Silence stretched out. Should she admit it?

 

Bruce already knew the way to get to her was through Clint, clearly. Whether she admitted it or not, he knew it now. At least if she admitted it, she might get something in return. She did look back down at Tony’s foot. “This time it was Clint. It’s not always.”

 

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” That was a lie. But his prying seemed to be about himself, not about her.

 

“It’s fine. Apparently, this is common knowledge. May I pry?”

 

His eyebrows inched up a little higher. “I guess you can _ask._ I’m guessing if I decline to answer you’ll read into it.”

 

“I read into everything.” She agreed, going back to Tony’s foot. “I’ll also read into it if you tell me not to pry.”

 

“Right.” He took a deep breath. “Fine. Pry.”

 

She didn’t take a deep breath, but she mustered her courage, 3 toes in to Tony’s left foot. “Do you feel guilty during, or not until you wake up?”

 

She didn’t look at him, gave him his space while he considered her words. “Not really guilty. More like…repulsed. Or a deep, healthy sense of self-loathing. And usually…not till after. When I wake up.” She nodded her understanding, 4th toe down. Very much alike, then. “You?”

 

“Same.”

 

Bruce gave a small noise of comprehension. Tony snorted, and shifted his foot again. Tony, she was willing to bet, had nightmares of other peoples actions, or of failing. Not of mercilessly killing anyone and everyone around him. Her dreams were useful preparation, even with the way she felt when she woke up, they gave her a sense of control. But there must be something nice about waking up and seeing yourself as merely a failure, instead of a potential monster. She could be jealous of that.

 

“Can I pry now?” That was probibaly to be expected.

 

“As long as you remember I might not answer.”

 

“Why are you painting Tony’s nails?”

 

Oh. Much more comfortable territory. “He came to get us. And didn’t even try not to fall asleep. He wanted us to be here. So I’m leaving him proof that I stayed. Acknowledging his decision to give me access to his body when he’s sleeping. He’s territorial. He understands this sort of thing. Besides, it really is a good color on him. I wish I had some topcoat.”

 

Bruce looked at Tony, sound asleep. “You think he’d like that?”

 

“I’m sure enough to try it.”

 

“Hm.”

 

Bruce was silent as she applied the second coat, but he seemed more comfortable now. Whether he thought Tony would react the same way she thought he would or not, he trusted her intentions.

 

That was nice. To have someone who could understand that she spent her nights going over ways to kill people, and still trust her to look after Tony’s best interests when he was vulnerable.

 

Dawn was filtering through the hotel curtains as the overnight movie switched to morning cartoons squeaking about friendship and sharing and they changed the channel. Then changed it again. Then once more until they caught the last of the overnight infomercials and entertained themselves with the endless possibilities of the “magic bullet” mini blender.

 

Just as they were considering what would happen if Tony’s blender-obsessed robot got ahold of one of these, Bruce reached over and picked up the little bottle. He smiled at it, the same way he smiled at Tony, as if simultaneously admonishing it. He unscrewed the cap, and crawled off the bed, kneeling next to it, where Tony’s hand was loosely curled on the bedding.

 

He bit his lip in concentration, and slowly, carefully, applied the brush to Tony’s left pinky finger. She leaned over, and laughed. “I’m glad you’re not a surgeon.”

 

“Thankfully, this isn’t life or death.” Bruce muttered, glopping another wet coat on top of the first one.

 

“That is good. You are infomercial grade terrible at this.” She grinned.

 

“It’s the thought that counts.” He muttered, smiling through his concentration. “Besides, I would lay money that Tony has had someone draw a penis on his face with sharpie more than once in his life.”

 

“Is that something people do?”

 

“It is something very drunk people do to even drunker people.”

 

“In that case, he really can’t complain, no matter how bad your application.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

Tony did complain, of course, after getting derailed mid sentence at 11am and after 3 cups of coffee when he gestured and his eyes tracked the red across his vision. He complained loudly, and happily. And even louder when Clint pointed out his toes.

 

Bruce denied any involvement, and was about as effective as he had been when attempting Tony’s manicure.

 

She was more touched than she should have been when she caught a chipped glimmer of red on Tony’s foot at the gym a month later.

 


End file.
